


Or Perish Together as Fools

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 18:04:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If they fail, at least they'll fail together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Or Perish Together as Fools

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Nichole's birthday. 1000 words.

They're about thirty miles away from the bridge, thirty miles closer to where they should be, maybe, and even though Sam's back in the passenger seat where he belongs, he's still too skittish for Dean's peace of mind.

"So, what, you've been working as a pimp since you quit hunting?" he asks, turning the volume down on whatever crappy Top 40 station Sam's picked out.

"What?" Sam gives him that surprised expression that makes him look all of six again, and wholly and utterly _Sam_.

"Only pimps and grandpas drive old gold Lincoln Continentals, Sammy." He glances over and grins--it almost feels natural. "On second thought, you definitely drive like a ninety-year-old grandpa."

He counts it off in his head--he's expecting Sam to flip him off on three Mississippi, but he makes it to six before Sam says, "Just because I don't want to get stopped for a speeding ticket when we're wanted by the FBI doesn't mean I drive like an old man, Dean." He purses his lips and manages to hold the expression for a full five seconds before his mouth twitches into a half smile. It looks awkward on him, like he hasn't done it in a while. That hurts, too.

"No, you're right. More like the little old lady from Pasadena." He shoots another grin in Sam's direction, this one more genuine. It feels good on his face. "Go, granny, go, granny, go, granny, go."

This time, he doesn't have to wait. Sam throws his head back and laughs loudly. If there's a hysterical edge to it, Dean isn't going to point it out. He's just going to bask in the sound for as long as he can.

Dean goes to turn the radio up when the silence after the laughter starts to get awkward, but Sam reaches out and grabs his wrist, long fingers warm against Dean's skin.

"What made you change your mind?"

"I told you, it's a long story."

Sam glances out the windshield at the endless stretch of empty highway ahead of them. "I've got time."

Dean doesn't want to talk about it, doesn't even want to _think_ about it, but he figures he owes Sam the truth--keeping secrets and telling lies are what led to this mess in the first place. He tells the story slowly, stumbling over the words he doesn't want to say, the ones that get stuck in his throat and need to be forced out: that he and Sam hadn't spoken in five years, that he was torturing again, that Sam had said yes to Lucifer. That it had ended bloody for everyone.

"A white suit? Really?" Sam looks shell-shocked, and he can't seem to get over this one detail. Which, okay, it is a pretty freakish detail, Dean has to admit.

"Really, Sam. You looked like fucking Colonel Sanders, okay?" He doesn't mention the way Lucifer had snapped his--well, future-Dean's--neck with his horrible, white, Herb Tarlek loafers. He tries to hide the shiver that runs through him, but Sam sees it. He reaches out and squeezes the back of Dean's neck. Dean forces himself not to flinch away from the contact.

"I would never wear a white suit," Sam says, dropping his hand back into his lap.

Dean misses its warmth. "I know."

"I would never say yes, Dean. _Never_." Sam's voice doesn't crack, but there's desperation underlying the determination, and it makes something in Dean's chest ache.

He has to blink back the sting of tears and clear his throat before he can say, "I know, Sammy. I believe you." He glances over again to see Sam's jaw set mulishly, the way it gets when he's dug in his heels and is refusing to give in. He'd spent most of his teenage years with it set that way. "If anyone could out-stubborn the devil, it's you."

Sam laughs again, and there's definitely a hysterical edge to it this time, like he's going to start sobbing any minute, and Dean wonders how he could have walked away from Sam for five years without even trying to contact him. He knows what he _said_, and he even meant it when he'd said it, but he doesn't understand how he could have ever let it go so long, get so fucked up.

He starts talking about stoner, hippie Castiel and future-Chuck's obsession with toilet paper so he doesn't start crying himself, and Sam's laughter eases, settles into something less panic-stricken.

They stop for dinner just outside Decatur, and decide to call it a night. Dean's wrung out and jittery, even after a full meal and two beers, and not even Sam's familiar presence at his side can soothe his jangled nerves. He keeps the television on low, flipping through the channels until he finds the Law and Order reruns, but even then, he's too exhausted to sleep. He tries to keep his tossing and turning to a minimum, but he can't get comfortable.

He hears the creak of Sam getting out of his bed and then feels the mattress dip as Sam climbs in beside him. He's brought the pillows from his bed, and he starts rearranging Dean's bed, and Dean's body, to his preferences.

Sam says, "Dean, I can't sleep," like he's still a little kid, even though he's big enough now to spoon Dean, the ginormous freak, and Dean sighs in relief, though he pretends it's resignation as he melts back into the solid warmth of Sam's body.

"Fine," he says, yawning. "but if you hog the blankets, I'm kicking your ass out."

"Whatever," Sam murmurs, his lips warm and his breath humid against the skin of Dean's neck. He drapes his arm over Dean's hip, huge warm hand spread out on Dean's belly, and Dean sighs again, relaxing for the first time in months.

Maybe Zachariah's right. Maybe they won't succeed. But if they fail, at least they'll fail together, and right now, that's the only sure thing Dean needs.

end

~*~


End file.
